


olive branches

by bellonaz



Series: put pen to paper [1]
Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Making Up, Post-Canon, Wedding Rings, because im mexican and therefore allowed to use it, everywhere in my writing, theres some spanish uwu
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-03
Updated: 2018-01-03
Packaged: 2019-02-27 18:35:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13254231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellonaz/pseuds/bellonaz
Summary: She threw hers away. He died wearing his.Now, it‘s a peace offering, after so many cold, lonely years.





	1. peace offering

Letters have stopped. Money is low.

Imelda is tired of this. Coco is getting restless, and the once soft wish Imelda had for Héctor to come home is null and void. She should have known, she should have known _que ese mendigo músico_ would leave her and Coco at the drop of a hat. Who knows where he is—but that doesn’t matter. He made his choice.

She’s about to make hers.

Imelda rips the wedding ring off of her finger and throws it out the window.

 

(Decades later, when Coco has a husband and two lovely daughters and when Imelda is a grandmother, she finds it. It’s dirty and nowhere near as shiny as it once was, but she finds it. Something feels wrong this time, and she doesn’t have the heart to leave it outside anymore. She brings it in with her, and puts it under her pillow.)

 

Héctor’s never been a violent person. He’s too lanky to be strong, and he’s too kind to be threatening. It’s never been in his nature, and he’s not entirely sure it ever will be.

But just because he’s not violent in nature doesn’t mean he can’t be violent. Sure, in his current state, it’ll never be an ominous presence. He’s too kind, too good. However, that doesn’t mean with the wrong words he won’t try his best. Even in a world where pain is non-existent to Remembered folk, Héctor tries.

Some of the Remembered like to take... _walks_ through the slums. Since so many of the Forgotten are so weak they can barely move, many homes are empty in possessions. They’re constantly being raided. And Héctor almost doesn’t have anything of interest in his own small hut, not really. He didn’t die with more than one personal item, not even his guitar. He didn’t even die an interesting death. He just ate some bad chorizo and his picture has never been put on a single altar.

Héctor has almost nothing of value in his home.

Except for a single, thin band made of gold.

His wedding ring.

Héctor’s not violent. However, if anyone saunters into his hut and tries to take his wedding ring—well, he’s very ept at coming apart all willy-nilly. He’s very good at making an escape from the bridge patrol, and he’s very good at taking his ring back from anyone who tries to steal it. That wedding ring—it’s his most prized possession. His only item of value. Whenever he gets in a mood, an itch to play a guitar in order to relieve some stress, he just holds the ring in his hand and squeezes it tight.

Imelda may not love him anymore, if his first and only meeting with her on this side of the world means anything, but he still loves her with all of his heart. Even if it’s not beating anymore, he loves her more than anything.

“Héctor,” one of his pseudo-tías (Tía Chole is _always_ on his case about everything) asks one day, cheerfully sewing _La Última Cena._ She was a seamstress when she was alive. She’s one of the few Remembered skeletons that regularly comes to the slums. She always brings the Forgotten food to eat and stories from the other parts of their world. “Why do you keep that ring? Didn’t you tell us that your wife didn’t even look at you the last time you went to see her?”

He just laughs a little awkwardly. “Ah, it’s nothing too interesting. I still love her, is all.”

Tía Chole hums. “You have a lot of love in your heart, Héctor.” She looks up from her work, and smiles a little sadly. There’s something in her eyes that he can’t quite place. She sets her sewing piece on her lap, and bony hands hold his tightly. “Make sure you channel it wisely, _mi’jo._ Chicharrón has a spare guitar he might let you borrow.”

He says nothing.

 

“This man,” Imelda murmurs, pacing back and forth in her bedroom. The Sunrise Spectacular had truly been… spectacular. She’s just happy that everyone managed to get on Pepita’s back before the hoard of reporters stormed them backstage. “Only Héctor can worry me this much.”

“Mamá Imelda,” Julio pipes up, holding his hat uncertainly. “Do—um, do you need anything? Bone salve, some tea...”

She looks over Héctor’s sleeping body. “Bring me some bone salve. This man— _¡este mendigo músico tiene cinta pa’ sus huesos!”_ She cries. “This can’t—this won’t do. Absolutely not. Yes, yes, Julio. Bone salve. And perhaps some bone polish,” she adds quietly, taking in his yellow bones. Imelda’s never seen a skeleton with bones this yellow, or with bones coming apart...

Julio nods, and quickly scurries out of the room. Imelda hears him mutter about needing to go the store.  She sighs, exasperated. “Ay, Héctor…”

At his name, her current source of a headache moans in pain. _“Santísima Muerte,”_ he groans, going lax on the bed. “I can’t remember the last time I slept on a bed—wait. The Final Death doesn’t seem too bad, then. Where am I—”

Héctor shoots up, nearly hitting Imelda in the face with his skull. “Terribly sorry, _señorita,_ but— _Imelda!?”_

Imelda blinks. “You—”

“Nevermind,” Héctor quickly sits back down on the bed. “If the Final Death is going to be like this, I’d rather just fade all over again.”

“Let me speak!” Imelda snaps. Héctor snaps his head to meet hers, before shaking his head and smiling sadly.

“You’re just like her,” he says absentmindedly, putting a bony hand into the tiny shirt pocket on his tattered vest. He pulls out a golden ring. “I didn’t think the Final Death would be so torturous.”

Imelda, for the first time in quite some time, is completely speechless.

“You—you kept it,” she whispers, eyes going wide at the sight of the familiar ring. Héctor looks at her, confused, before looking at where Imelda’s eyes follow. Héctor shrugs.

“I died wearing it,” he says, toying with it. “It’s my most valuable—I don’t know why I’m telling you this. I faded, right? This is all some dream that my cruel, non-existent brain conjured up to torture me? You’re not really Imelda, even if you act like her. And sound like her, and look like her.”

His most valuable…?

“This isn’t a dream,” Imelda says quietly. “I… Ernesto poisoned you, Héctor. He killed you and stole your songs.”

Héctor blinks, before jumping off the bed again. “Then—Miguel, he… Coco! Coco, she. She remembered me! She remembers me!”

“She remembers you,” Imelda agrees.

It’s quiet for a little while. “Well,” Héctor says, breaking the silence. “I’ll be leaving now.”

“Leaving?” Imelda asks, a little hurt. “Why?”

Héctor looks away. “I thought you didn’t want me around, Imelda. And I’m okay with that, if it’s what you want! I’m just happy my little girl remembered me. I’m just trying to respect what you said—”

 _“—Mendigo músico,”_ Imelda cuts him off. “I’m not as upset now that I know what happened! You were poisoned for wanting to _come back to us!_ You, you were punished for choosing your family over fortune. And that’s- I, Héctor... I’m sorry.”

He looks appalled. “Why are you sorry? It’s my fault that I left in the first place. I’m the one who’s sorry—if I had been a little more perceptive, none of this would’ve happened.”

Imelda can’t look him in the eye. “I told them that you chose music over me, Héctor. Nearly everyone in the family hates you for what I said. Héctor, I threw away my ring.”

She’s not sure if the fact he doesn’t even look shocked hurts more than the soft little accepting shrug he gives her in response. “Not like I blame you,” he says quietly. “Really, Imelda, it’s okay. I’m fine.”

“It’s not!” She exclaims, frustrated. “I won’t lie when I say I’m still upset you left in the first place. But I never meant for you to nearly die like this, Héctor. It’s my fault that you were so close to leaving me again! It’s my fault you wear tatters and have yellowing bones and have a broken fibula—”

“Hey, hey,” he says. “Really, it’s okay.”

He holds his ring out to her. _“Estoy bien.”_

Imelda hesitates for a few seconds, but takes the thin band of gold. It’s so much bigger than she remembers, but maybe that’s because flesh has been worn away and now she’s all bones.

But that doesn’t matter right now. He just offered her a peace offering.

She can deal with this.

When Héctor smiles at her, she smiles back.

They can deal with is. They can start over.

 _“Hola,”_ Imelda says warmly. “I’m Imelda, and I like to make shoes.”

He looks confused, before a smile breaks on his face, showing off his golden tooth. _“Hola,”_ he returns pleasantly. “I’m Héctor, and I like to play the guitar.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i had this thought and sent to like 3 of my friends. just, "do u ever think abt how imelda probably threw her wedding ring away but héctor probably died in his?"
> 
> it made me sad but. here it is.


	2. discoveries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She never _really_ threw it away.

Mamá had died only a few days ago. Socorro is still mourning, of _course_ she is, but it’s time to clear out her Mamá’s bedroom. Elena and Victoria are both growing up to be lovely young women, and if they stayed in Santa Cecilia, they’d need space for oncoming family members. And unfortunately, Mamá Imelda’s would be the first to get cleaned. Everything would be stored, but the room itself would need to be vacant.

“Julio, _mi amor,”_ Socorro asks hoarsely. “Can you get me some boxes for her things?”

Her husband, ever-so-gracious, agrees and leaves her in her mother’s bedroom. It’s clean, and Mamá Imelda definitely cleaned it the day of her death. It hasn’t been touched, and dust has collected on her nightstand, vanity, and the bedframe.

Socorro starts with the pillows. She’s silent the entire time, trying to hold back tears.

What she sees when she lifts the pillows up shocks her completely.

It’s a ring.

Socorro moves to grab it, and examines it in awe. It’s thin, golden, with a tiny diamond encrusted in the center. It’s patchy, covered in a thin layer of dirt and dust, but otherwise looks clean. It’s vaguely familiar, and Socorro desperately tries to remember where it came from, but Julio is back with boxes. She hurriedly puts it in her pocket, and begins to properly put away Mamá Imelda’s belongings.

 

“He and Mamá would sing such beautiful songs,” Mamá Coco says quietly, lovingly. Miguel hangs off every word like a lifeline. And it is, to someone else on the other side. He just hopes he actually made it back in time. He hopes Papá Héctor is okay.

“When Mamá died, I found a ring under her pillow when we cleaned it out,” she says absentmindedly. “It looks like a wedding ring. Maybe it was hers. _Aqui lo alcé,_ in case she’d ever want it back. Does she want it back, Miguel?” Mamá Coco askes seriously.

Miguel doesn’t know what to say, not with his entire family watching him. “I don’t know, Mamá Coco,” he answers carefully. Mamá Imelda didn’t seem to despise Héctor when she was trying to send him back, but it could’ve been in the heat of the moment. But she _did_ say he was the love of her life, so maybe. Perhaps not right now, since the wound would be fresh, but soon. After they’ve been allowed to heal. “Maybe next year, we can put it on the altar. If she wants it back, I’m sure she’ll get it.”

Mamá Coco smiles widely, gums and all. “That’s so nice to hear, Miguel.”

 

In all honesty, Rosa has no idea what to think about what happened earlier today. Like, her stupid cousin Miguel just, _goes missing_ on _día de muertos,_ comes back the next morning, and somehow manages to jog Mamá Coco’s memory with a song? Rosa’s heard music before, of course she has, but she’s subtle about it. At school, her friends share their music with her so she knows what she’s missing at home. And like, of _course_ she’s heard of _Recuérdame_. Everyone has (except for most of her family, duh.)

It doesn’t make sense that Mamá Coco would remember her father at the sound of _Recuérdame_ unless Ernesto de la Cruz is her father. However, looking at the picture Miguel taped together… that man is not Ernesto de la Cruz.

And so, since God has absolutely nothing on a determined thirteen year old, she takes to the church’s records of marriages. It only takes a little bit of convincing on Rosa’s behalf, because she’s the _best_ in catechism and therefore is on all of the nun’s good sides. The records date back to 1910, which should be plenty early enough for Rosa to start digging.

After a few page flips, she finds the name _Imelda R._ next to the name _Héctor._ There’s no last initial or anything, so Rosa just assumes that Héctor (Papá Héctor?) is Mamá Imelda’s husband and he took her last name.

Now, Rosa is not stupid. If apparently, Coco’s father sung her _Recuérdame_ enough times that the song alone triggers the memories of her father and everything important after that to come back to her, that means something. Because if Papá Héctor left when Coco was a child (which he did), it means he left in the early to mid-1920s, and it just so happens that _Recuérdame_ hit the market in the mid to late-1920s. It means, in order for Mamá Coco to know what _Recuérdame_ sounds like, Papá Héctor was the one who wrote _Recuérdame_ first.

And it’s not like the way Miguel sung it to Mamá Coco was the same quick-paced love song that Ernesto de la Cruz “wrote.” No, Miguel made it sound slower. It sounded soft. It sounded like… a lullaby.

That means something. It means Ernesto stole “his music” from Papá Héctor and skewed the meaning.

Rosa doesn’t know anything about Papá Héctor other than that he was a musician. However, Rosa does know artists, and she knows they all hate it when people take credit for their work. She doubts Papá Héctor would have simply accepted being in Ernesto’s shadow without a fight, but no one’s ever challenged Ernesto before either. But, of course… he couldn’t fight if he wasn’t around...

Suddenly, she understands.

Papá Héctor didn’t leave and never came home because he wanted to.

He was _killed._

 

It’s that time of year again. Héctor’s always dreaded _día de muertos,_ but now more than ever. Because now he knows he’s Remembered, but there’s still no picture. He’ll have to wait and wait and wait, each time a new family member dies in order to see them.

However, his darling little girl told him to try anyway. “You never know, Papá,” Coco hummed the night before. “Miguel is resourceful. I’m sure he would’ve figured something out.”

“If you’re sure, _mi’ja,”_ Héctor says.

He waits in line anxiously. People around him look shocked, mostly because he’s actually waiting in line, looking like himself. He’s earned something of fame with his ridiculous attempts at trying to cross the marigold bridge, but other people just look at him in awe because he’s _Héctor Rivera,_ the one who really wrote all of Mexico’s favorite songs.

It’s his turn now. If the bridge patrol is shocked with his non-attempt at crossing the bridge, no one shows it.

His non-existent heart is beating harder than he can ever remember it beating before.

When the beep of rejection doesn’t come and he is instead graced with the beep of _have a nice día de muertos, Héctor!,_ he feels his eyes water.

He hasn’t seen the other side for so long.

Feeling the marigold bridge accept his weight is something Hector never thought he’d get to experience. But here he is, walking on it, holding his wife’s hand in his left and his daughter’s hand in his right. Suddenly, everything feels okay. More okay than anything has felt before.

Hector practically runs to where the home he remembers was, and he’s ecstatic to see it look close to the same. He sees his guitar mounted on a wall nearby, and he sees his—his _letters._ The ones he wrote for Coco and Imelda. Wait. _Wait;_

“Did he…” Hector stares in awe. _“Ese chamaco…_ He exposed Ernesto!”

Imelda looks at him warmly. _“Está bien._ Maybe that good-for-nothing is still under that bell.”

Hector laughs, “I hope so.”

He tugs her over to the inside of the family home. He eagerly allows her to point out all of his family members, but she hits a stump at the baby girl that Elena is holding. “I’ve never seen her before,” Imelda murmurs. “Unless one of our great-grandchildren was pregnant last _día de muertos._ I never saw. None of us did, since we were helping you and Miguel out.”

Speaking of the little _chamaco,_ he pops out of the house and takes the baby girl of Elena’s arms and into his, eagerly entering where the altar is kept. Héctor bolts in after him, and Imelda chuckles before following.

“Look, Socorro,” Héctor hears Miguel say. He feels his heart _melt;_ they named their new baby after his Coco? Oh, he loves his family. “These aren’t just old pictures, they’re our family! Look, that’s your Papá Julio, and your Tía Victoria, and that’s Tía Rosita…” Miguel starts explaining.

Elena enters, and shakily puts another picture of Coco on the altar. Imelda finally enters the altar with him, and she gasps. “Oh, they found it.”

“Found what?” Héctor asks. His three living family members leave the altar, and now it’s only Imelda and Héctor inside.

Imelda points near the top—oh, it’s _their_ picture. It’s him, with Imelda and Coco. That—wait. When Miguel had it, his face was torn off. But now…

“She never threw me away,” he whispers. “She kept me! Coco kept my picture!”

“What a disobedient child,” Imelda says fondly, jokingly.

They laugh together, and it’s quiet when Héctor sees Miguel enter back inside the altar. He sticks his hand into his pocket, and fishes out a small, golden thing that glints in the sunshine.

“Imelda,” Héctor says, trying to get her attention. Miguel puts the golden thing right at the very top of the altar, and right as he turns back to leave, he winks at Héctor.

“Imelda!” Héctor grabs her wildly, both excited at what Miguel put on the altar and at the prospect that Miguel can still see them. “Look! It’s your—”

“My ring,” she whispers.

“I thought—I thought you threw it away.”

Imelda looks embarrassed. “I miraculously found it again, decades later. I kept it under my pillow after that. Coco, she must have found it and put it away somewhere. I didn’t know that.”

“Oh, Coco,” Héctor is so close to weeping. “That girl…”

Hector grabs the ring, and is pleasantly surprised when a duplicate of the thin, golden ring is what lifts out and fits onto his hand. He snags a loose string from his albeit fixed, still not perfect shirt, and ties it into a necklace. The ring would be too big for Imelda’s finger, now that she’s all bone and no flesh, but…

“Oh, you big sap,” Imelda says, eyes glinting in the sunlight as she accepts her makeshift necklace made out of her previously discarded wedding ring.

Héctor smiles even wider when Imelda fishes his own ring out of her apron, and gestures at his still hanging loose string. He quickly makes a new necklace, and when Imelda puts it over his head and it hangs around his neck, everything feels okay.

God, he loves his family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i felt like i just had to add a chapter 2 jdfkgh. here take it i wrote it in like 1.5 hours
> 
> also i really liked writing rosa? whats god to a determined 13 year old. 
> 
> either way thank u all so much 4 reading... <3


End file.
